Paying a Visit

Mirac stirred in his sleep, his body motionless on the pile of leaves, but his mind trapped in that vivid dream, beneath the starry sky that pulsed like a living heart.

The words of light flickered before his eyes, an enigmatic invitation staring at him insistently:

[ Do you still wish to enter the Realm of Numbers? ]

His breathing, slow and deep in the real world, was absent in the dreamlike dimension, while confusion gripped his throat like a vise.

'The Realm of Numbers?' he thought, his inner voice fragile, almost lost under the weight of those mysterious words. 'What the heck is that supposed to be?!'

The mystery both fascinated and frightened him, a call to the unknown that made his heart beat faster, even in sleep.

'Could it be a parallel world?' he continued to muse, his eyes fixed on the glowing letters floating among the stars. 'Yes, it might be. And considering one of the previous messages mentioned sharing a view with a resident, I think it's inhabited by some kind of civilization. And now I… have access to this place? But why? What exactly would I need it for?'

As he lost himself in those questions, a new message appeared, hovering above the previous one like an addition carved in light:

[ If you decide to decline the invitation at this moment, you will retain the right to access the Realm of Numbers in the future ]

Mirac sighed inwardly, a silent sound that dissolved into the void of the dream.

'So I can refuse, huh?' he thought, as a wave of exhaustion washed over him. 'Well, honestly, as curious as I am to find out what's exactly in this Realm of Numbers, I don't feel like stepping into it right now.'

In that moment, he thought of Carmen, sitting by the embers, keeping watch over him in the forest.

He also thought of the long journey ahead, of that uncertain future she had promised to reveal in the morning.

He already had too many questions, too many burdens.

Entering the Realm of Numbers, even just as a spectator, meant facing something entirely new, something immense, when all Mirac wanted right now was a moment of respite: a moment of peace, of calm, to process all the chaos that had unfolded in the past few days with his family and his old life as a Prince.

And it was precisely for this reason that Mirac made his final decision:

'No,' he thought, determination sparking like a flicker in the darkness of his mind. 'I don't want to go in. Not now…'

The reasons crowded his mind, clear and heavy.

He was too tired, yes, but not just physically: his mind was a tangle of doubts, fears, and broken hopes.

Facing an unknown world, even just by observing it, would require a psychological effort he couldn't afford to give at that moment.

'I'll do it later,' he promised himself, the eyes of his mind closing slowly, almost as if to extinguish that starry sky. 'When I feel ready.'

The glowing letters seemed to tremble, as if sensing his decision.

Then, with a fluid motion, they rearranged themselves one last time, forming a new message:

[ Choice registered! ]

[ Access to the Realm of Numbers has been postponed ]

[ The gift of Math will remain on hold until your next call… ]

The starry sky dissolved slowly, the stars fading one by one, letting him slip into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

In the real world, his body relaxed on the bed of leaves, his breathing steadying, his face calm for the first time in days.

Beside him, Carmen continued her vigil, unaware of what had just unfolded in the boy's mind.

The embers crackled softly, a steady sound mingling with the rustle of the wind through the trees.

The night carried on silently, wrapping the two fugitives in its black cloak, while the future, with all its promises and mysteries, remained suspended, awaiting the morning.

* * *

The morning arrived silently, a pale dawn seeping through the branches of the forest, igniting golden reflections on the dew-drenched leaves.

In the heart of the Kingdom of Ardorya, the sun had just begun to paint the towering walls of the Strongold Royal Palace with shades of pink and gold.

Michelle, however, was already awake.

In her room on the second floor of the palace, the silence of the dawn was broken only by the faint rustle of the breeze filtering through the slightly open window.

She stood before the mirror in her chamber, her breathing calm as she prepared herself with precise movements.

She wore a simple yet elegant robe, a soft blue that contrasted with her smooth, light brown hair cascading loosely over her shoulders.

With a small brush, she applied a light layer of powder to her face, her dark eyes fixed on her own reflection.

'It's been two days since I last felt watched…' she thought, pausing for a moment, the brush hovering in midair.

That sense of oppression, that prickling at the nape of her neck that had tormented her for days, had vanished.

'Could it be his doing?'

A flicker of hope crossed her gaze, but it quickly darkened.

'Well, there's only one way to find out…'

With a decisive motion, she set the brush down on the table and left the room.

She descended the stairs from the second floor to the ground level, heading towards the kitchen.

No one from her family had brought food to Mirac for days—night after night, they had left him to rot in that cell, without bringing him even a crumb of bread.

Even if Mirac was still alive, after days locked in that forgotten cell, he must surely be tormented by hunger and thirst.

And if she wanted answers, Michelle knew she couldn't show up empty-handed: bringing him something to eat and drink was the least she could do to earn a sliver of his trust.

Reaching the ground floor's atrium, a vast space illuminated by large arched windows, Michelle walked across the polished marble floor, her heels producing a faint tapping sound.

As she passed a tall column, she caught the hushed murmurs of two maids standing a little further ahead, busy sweeping the floor with their brooms.

The rhythmic swish of bristles on marble accompanied their whispers,a conversation far more interesting than the tedious work they were doing.

"…the fire last night, in the southern part of the walls. They say the flames suddenly flared up because of a guard wh-"

The words cut off abruptly.

The two women looked up and saw Princess Michelle approaching, the rhythm of her steps overpowering the swish of their brooms.

In a swift, synchronized motion, they stopped, gripping the wooden handles tightly, and bowed, their black skirts brushing the glossy floor.

"Your Highness," murmured the older one, while the other kept her hands clasped over her apron, her back bent in a curve of devotion.

Michelle slowed her pace slightly.

Without stopping, she gave a faint nod and a fleeting smile—just a subtle curve of her lips, more a shadow of kindness than a true sign of familiarity.

Then she continued, her gaze already fixed on the corridor leading to the kitchen, her steps echoing decisively on the marble.

But as she walked, the words she'd overheard from the maids slipped into her thoughts:

'A fire?' she wondered, a shiver of unease brushing her mind.

The news grazed her thoughts like a light, distracted breeze, unable to take hold, overwhelmed by the far heavier weight of the questions burning within her.

She had far more pressing things to think about, after all.

She entered the kitchen, a spacious room already bustling with activity despite the early hour.

The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the clatter of pots and the chatter of the cooks.

Michelle moved carefully, trying not to draw too much attention, slipping between the kitchen tables as the cooks, absorbed in their work, greeted her with distracted nods that she barely returned.

She approached a rough wooden table where baskets of bread and blocks of cheese were laid out.

With a quick motion, she grabbed a warm piece of bread, its crust crisp beneath her fingers, and a small chunk of yellow cheese, wrapping them in a clean cloth she found nearby.

Then, glancing around, she spotted a pitcher of fresh water by the sink.

She poured its contents into a terracotta bottle she took from a shelf, sealing it with a small cork.

She tucked everything into a canvas sack she found hanging on a hook, gripping it firmly in her left hand.

With the sack secure, she left the kitchen with swift steps, the weight of the food and water swinging lightly against her side.

Now that she had food and water for Mirac, she needed to reach him.

She climbed the stairs to the third floor, her heart beating faster with each step.

Every so often, she glanced over her shoulder, an instinctive gesture, as if expecting to see a shadow following her.

But the corridors remained empty.

In no time, she reached King Arthur's private study, a room few dared approach without an invitation.

She stopped before the dark wooden door, inlaid with geometric patterns, and glanced around one last time.

There was no one: neither to the right nor the left.

'Perfect!'

With a deep breath, she entered the room and closed the door behind her, locking it with a decisive click.

The interior was steeped in dusty dimness, the scent of old paper and wax lingering in the air.

Opposite the entrance, on the far side of the room, stood a large rectangular desk made of solid oak.

But Michelle didn't linger on the furnishings for long.

Instead, she headed towards the left side of the room, where a tall bookshelf stretched to the ceiling against the wall, laden with leather-bound tomes, each with its own story to tell.

Calmly, she reached for a book with a dark leather cover, its edges worn, looking older than the rest.

Her movement was slow and deliberate, almost solemn.

Clack!

As soon as Michelle pulled it towards her, a metallic, muffled sound rang through the air.

The room's silence was shattered by the noise of gears springing to life, revealing the workings of a mechanism hidden within the walls themselves.

Michelle instinctively stepped back, watching as the bookshelf slowly rotated, unveiling a narrow passageway opening into darkness.

Beyond the passage, a spiral staircase came into view, descending deep into the castle.

Michelle didn't hesitate.

She lifted the hem of her robe slightly, grabbed the torch hanging to the right at the entrance of the secret passage, and began descending the cold, damp steps.

The air grew heavier with each step, carrying the scent of mold and rusted metal.

When she reached the bottom of the descent, she found herself in a long underground corridor, dimly lit by the torch in her hand and the few others hanging on the walls.

To her right and left opened cells and rooms sealed by iron doors, some so old that rust had eaten away at their edges.

The corridor seemed endless, and the silence that filled it was so profound that every step echoed in an absolute void.

Each step she took brought her back to that late afternoon on the first of March, when everything had taken a turn none of them could have anticipated.

In fact, Michelle could still feel the chill in the air as King Arthur had summoned her to his study.

The anonymous letter the king had received left no room for doubt:

"Prince Mirac Strongold is a Chaotic."

Those words had frozen everyone's soul.

The news had struck them like a bolt from the blue, a sudden blow that left them stunned and breathless.

Michelle still remembered her mother's reaction: a mix of sadness, pain, and anger, a response she had never seen in her before.

Her mother's regal figure, usually calm and composed, seemed to crack under the weight of that revelation.

Her mother's face had tightened into a grimace of anguish and helplessness, while her sisters, like Michelle herself, flinched almost in unison from the shock of the news.

It couldn't be possible…

It couldn't be true!

Mirac, Prince Mirac, a Chaotic?!

Yet, as absurd and devastating as that revelation was, King Arthur, unlike the rest of them, had shown no emotion, no surprise.

Only an icy calm, as if he had been prepared for that revelation for a long time.

"We must get rid of him," he had declared in a chilling voice. "We cannot afford to risk dying because of him."

No one knew for certain if Mirac was truly a Chaotic—there was no tangible proof, only that anonymous accusation—but questioning him was out of the question!

If it were true, in fact, Mirac could have sensed the danger and attempted to escape, making everything more complicated.

The doubt lingered, but the terror of being dragged into an abyss and condemned to death had stifled any hesitation.

Even wondering who and how someone had learned about that secret was pointless at a time like this. It was a matter that soon everyone overlooked.

As a result, in the face of King Arthur's decision, no one had dared to oppose it.

Not even Michelle, despite the knot tightening her stomach like a vise.

They had all accepted the plan as if it were an inevitable decision, an extreme step to take to protect themselves.

But how could they do it?

How could they eliminate Mirac, the one who had escaped death the moment he was born?

That thought sparked doubt among them: would they really be able to kill the Risen Prince?

The one who seemed to possess divine protection, a Blessing from Mother Nature herself?

The question hung in the air, heavy and insidious, but despite everything, they had decided to try.

Michelle, still shaken, vividly remembered the moment she had seen her sisters running into the kitchen.

There, they had waited patiently, hearts pounding, for the right moment to act, to poison the dish prepared by Prince Mirac's personal servant and meant for him, hoping that the poison would do its job.

Every movement had been calculated, every step executed with the utmost discretion to avoid raising suspicion.

When dinner was over, each of them had returned to their rooms, but at midnight, they had gathered again, as agreed.

The silence of the night enveloped them.

Michelle remembered perfectly the moment they had slipped into Mirac's room, cracking the door just enough to catch a glimpse of him.

There, on the wooden floor, the Prince lay face down, his eyes wide open in a silent cry for help.

Moonlight filtered through the window, illuminating his pale face, contorted in a grimace of suffering.

His breathing was a broken, labored rasp, a sound that clawed at the air.

Then, after one final spasm, his body stiffened, motionless like a fallen statue.

The poison seemed to have successfully completed its task.

In that instant, Michelle had felt the weight of a choice that now crushed her soul, an irreversible burden that stole her breath.

She had wanted to believe it was the right thing, but doubt gnawed at her heart.

After Mirac had exhaled what seemed to be his final breath, her father, without a word, approached him and lifted him into his arms.

With his usual coldness, King Arthur led the group toward the stairs.

Behind him, the Queen, Michelle, and the sisters moved in silence, not a whisper of disapproval, as Mirac's body was carried through the dark corridors of the castle.

But as they climbed the stairs, Michelle had felt a sudden shiver: for less than a second, she had felt invisible eyes on her again, the same unsettling feeling of being watched that she had mentioned to Mirac earlier that day, and that always made her skin crawl.

But just as quickly as it had come, it vanished, leaving her uncertain whether it was real or just an echo of her fear.

'No, it can't be. It must have just been my imagination…' Michelle had thought, trying to calm herself. 'After all, if someone were really following us secretly right now, my father would have noticed immediately. I have nothing to worry about, then.'

That thought, fragile as it was, was enough to ease the discomfort tightening her chest.

Continuing up the stairs, the group finally reached the third floor and proceeded down the long corridor.

Suddenly, King Arthur stopped in front of the door to his private study, opened it with a decisive gesture, and led the others inside.

The atmosphere was frigid, the silence broken only by the sound of their hurried steps, driven by a mute, pressing urgency.

King Arthur set Mirac's body on the floor to open the hidden passage behind the bookshelf, a secret known only to him.

A passage that led downward, into the very heart of the castle.

Then, without a word, King Arthur lifted Mirac again and descended the stairs, the entire family following behind.

Soon, they found themselves in a long and damp underground corridor, the same one Michelle was walking through now.

Her mind was racing, trying to understand the meaning of that dark place, but she couldn't find any answers.

The cells lining the corridor were empty, the rusty doors marked the passage of time, and desolation filled every corner.

No one, not even Michelle, nor her sisters, nor the Queen, knew about the existence of the secret passage or that prison hidden beneath the palace.

As Michelle walked down the corridor with food for Mirac, her father's words suddenly came back to her mind, sharp and threatening, more of an intimidation than a simple warning:

"Never open these doors. They are all enchanted with powerful Fire Runes. If they are not deactivated in the correct way beforehand, they will activate, causing a huge explosion."

The fear instilled by those words still lingered in her mind.

But there was a part of Michelle that, in that moment, had wondered if they had truly made the right decision.

'There's nothing I can do about it, unfortunately,' she had told herself then, her heart gripped by something akin to regret. 'You were just unlucky, little brother…'

At one point, her father had stopped in front of one of the cells, number 31, a dark shadow among the others.

The Queen and the three sisters had stopped behind him, their breath held, their eyes fixed on the imposing figure of the King.

King Arthur used his Fire Magic, a red glow flowing from his hands like liquid flames, deactivating the runes that sealed the door.

With a swift, decisive motion, he threw inside what they hoped was Mirac's corpse, then reactivated the Runes with another flash of light, and closed the door with a metallic clang.

'A rather eventful night,' Michelle thought, as the corridor stretched endlessly before her.

Each number carved into the stone above the cells, ticking silently in her mind, dragged her back to that night—the biting cold of the underground prison nipping at her skin, the stifling silence of the family broken only by their breathing, the crushing weight of what they had done together.

* * *

'Twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…'

As the flow of memories came to a stop, Michelle found herself in front of cell number 31, Mirac's cell.

The images of the past dissolved like mist at sunrise, giving way to the bare truth of the present moment.

'Huh?!'

When Michelle stopped and set her gaze on the cell, her breath caught in her throat.

"W-What the hell…?!"

In her shock, she dropped the canvas sack with the food and water, the dull thud echoing in the silence.

She blinked repeatedly, her heart pounding in her chest, unable to accept what she saw: the cell door was gone, vanished into thin air, as if it had never existed!

There was no longer the solid wooden door, nor the magical runes protecting it: just an empty opening, a perfect rectangle revealing the deserted cell beyond.

In disbelief, Michelle passed a trembling hand in front of the space, almost expecting to touch an illusion, but her fingers met only cold, still air.

"I-I can't believe it…" she stammered, her voice trembling. "He escaped!"

In that moment, a realization struck her like lightning, making her stagger.

"The fire…" she thought, her mind racing back to the maids' words. "It wasn't an accident. It was him. Mirac used the fire as a diversion to get past the walls and escape!"

Her heart began to beat faster, a mix of disbelief and apprehension.

Since the anonymous letter they'd received had only stated that the Prince was a Chaotic, no one in the family knew exactly what Mirac was in Syntony with, and therefore his powers remained a mystery.

No one could have imagined he possessed a power so extraordinary that it could make the door disappear, bypassing the security system of the Fire Runes etched into it.

Yet, there it was, the proof right in front of her eyes: her brother had escaped, free out there somewhere.

"Damn it!"

Michelle had no time to waste: she had to act!

She turned back, ascending the spiral staircase with fierce determination, the steps creaking under her rapid pace.

Once back in the study, she rushed to King Arthur's desk, its dark wood illuminated by the sunlight filtering through the heavy red curtains.

She grabbed a sheet of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell, her hands trembling slightly with urgency.

She had to warn her father immediately!

She wrote quickly, the quill scratching on the parchment with swift and decisive strokes, few words but carrying an inescapable weight:

"Father: cell number 31 is empty!"

She sealed the letter with wax, the heat of the flame scorching her fingers as she pressed her personal ring into it—a sword-shaped sigil that trembled slightly under the pressure.

She left the room with the same caution she'd entered, the letter clutched in her hand, her breath short.

The third-floor corridor was still deserted, an oppressive silence broken only by the rustle of her robe.

She descended to the ground floor again with hurried steps, heading towards the atrium.

There, she found the court messenger near the main entrance, a thin man in a gray cloak, focused on sharpening a dagger.

"Deliver this to my father," Michelle ordered, handing him the letter in a tone that brooked no argument.

He looked at her hesitantly for a moment, but in the end, he asked no questions.

He took the parchment, slipped it into his satchel, and nodded.

"Understood!" he exclaimed.

Moments later, he was outside, mounting a bay horse with a fluid motion.

The palace doors groaned open, and the messenger spurred the horse into a gallop, heading towards the capital, Kragmar, a cloud of dust rising behind him in the morning light.

Michelle stood at the threshold, her gaze fixed on the departing figure, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

Mirac had escaped.

But what would her father do once he learned of his flight?

'Did I really make the right choice?'

* * *

The morning crept through the trees like a whisper, the pale light of dawn filtering through the branches, tinting the undergrowth with shades of gold and gray.

In the silence of the forest, broken only by the distant song of a nightingale, Mirac's body still lay on the pile of leaves, wrapped in his black cloak.

His breathing was slow and deep, a rhythm that seemed to blend with the rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze.

After the dream beneath the starry sky, his mind had settled, slipping into a sleep devoid of visions—a void that had granted him, for the first time in days, a fragment of peace.

Beside him, Carmen had remained vigilant all night, sitting with her back against an oak, her dagger resting on her knees.

The embers in the pit were now a pile of gray ash, with only a few stubborn red sparks flickering in the dawn's chill.

Her dark, attentive eyes scanned the horizon between the trees, her hands still but ready to spring at the slightest sound.

Her red hair, loose and slightly tousled by the wind, fell over her shoulders, framing a pale but resolute face.

Fatigue weighed on her body, but she didn't show it—her posture was straight, her face a mask of determination.

Crack!

A faint snap among the branches made her turn sharply, but it was only a deer—a slender shape moving silently through the undergrowth, unaware of their presence.

Carmen relaxed her grip on the dagger, exhaling softly.

Then her gaze settled on Mirac, still lost in sleep.

The dawn light illuminated his face, revealing features hollowed by hunger and tension: slightly sunken cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, and disheveled black hair falling over his forehead.

But in the end, compared to when she had first seen him in the cell, he seemed to have recovered a little.

"Mirac," Carmen said, her voice low but clear, a call that broke the forest's silence. "Mirac, get up. It's time to wake up."

Mirac stirred slightly, a muffled groan escaping his lips as consciousness slowly took hold.

His eyelids fluttered, and his green eyes opened gradually, clouded with confusion.

For a moment, he didn't remember where he was: the sky above, streaked with branches and light, felt foreign, and the scent of damp earth and burnt wood stung his nostrils.

But then Carmen's face came into view, her red hair catching the dawn light, her dark eyes fixed on him.

Mirac sat up with effort, rubbing his face with the back of his hand, fatigue tugging at every muscle.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice hoarse and uncertain as he looked around, trying to get his bearings in the undergrowth shrouded in the twilight of dawn.

"Good morning to you too," Carmen replied, the dagger sliding swiftly into the sheath at her side with a soft metallic click. "Slept well?" she asked, a hint of curiosity softening her firm tone.

"Yeah, thanks," Mirac answered, nodding slowly, though the weight of the night still pressed on his shoulders.

There was a second of silence, a suspended moment when their gazes met: his green eyes, still veiled with sleep, against her dark, fathomless ones.

It was Mirac who broke the awkward stillness, his voice rising timidly but resolute:

"And you? How was your night?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his black hair falling over his eyes as he tried to read Carmen's expression.

Carmen let out a soft sigh, almost a breath lost in the rustle of wind-stirred leaves.

"Fine as well, thanks," she replied, a hint of exhaustion creeping into her tone as she tried to conceal it.

With that, Carmen stood, her slender frame outlined against the dawn's glow.

"Come on, get ready," she urged, her voice regaining its firmness as she bent to pick up her backpack.

With a quick motion, she pulled out a small cloth bundle, unrolling it to reveal dry bread and strips of cured meat.

"After we have breakfast and clean up this place to erase our tracks, we'll set off."

"To where?" Mirac asked, his voice betraying a mix of curiosity and apprehension, his green eyes narrowing as he stood, his cloak slipping from his shoulders.

"Eastward," Carmen replied, breaking the bread with a sharp motion and finally handing it to Mirac. "We may have to make a few stops along the way, but our destination is clear: the Red Desert."